


Still Nights

by pistolgrip



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mostly Dialogue, minimally beta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-24 00:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12000873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pistolgrip/pseuds/pistolgrip
Summary: They’re Lance’s fuzzy blue slippers, it’s almost 4am, and Lance is presumably in the kitchen. The chances that this is a simple late night snack craving plummets, Keith’s gut along with it.





	Still Nights

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this at 4am and i now understand why people write catharsis fic  
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Keith wakes up in the middle of the night to a warm spot next to him on the bed and nothing else. Eyeing the clock wearily, he thinks that almost 4am is a bad time for Lance to be up and wandering again; the door is cracked open slightly and he sees the faintest sliver of light from the apartment kitchen through the hallway, so bracing himself, he slips his feet off the edge of the bed.

He thanks the heavens for carpet, at least. He’s naturally kind of warm as a person but even _he’s_ feeling the winter cold, prompting him to reach for one of the blankets that drapes over the chair. He shuffles his feet into the slippers and stares at them for a bit before noting _oh, they’re not my colour_. They’re Lance’s fuzzy blue slippers.

They’re Lance’s fuzzy blue slippers, it’s almost 4am, and Lance is presumably in the kitchen. The chances that this is a simple late night snack craving plummets, Keith’s gut along with it.

Even as he worries, his feet never stop moving him down the hallway. He’s worried for Lance, first and foremost, but he worries too about whether he’s enough. Keith worries about Lance one day leaving because his words don’t come out right, that his intentions will be betrayed one too many times by his cursed tongue—

His eyes have already adjusted to the light before he knows it, and so he can clearly see the scene in front of him: Lance on the kitchen floor with a half-full bag of bread in one hand. He’s munching on a slice and staring into his reflection in the dark oven glass opposite of him with a look that most would call thoughtful and Keith, who has gotten intimately familiar with this expression, calls unfocused.

Without speaking, he sits on the ground next to Lance, relinquishing the fuzzy slippers to his boyfriend. He can see the appreciative wiggle of Lance’s toes (even if his face remains impassive) and takes it as a sign that he is welcome to lean back next to Lance. Keith wraps his blanket around the two of them, leaning his head against his shoulder, and takes a few moments to feel Lance’s body heat and his uncharacteristically quiet chewing.

“Want me to toast those for you?” Keith asks, eyes falling on the oven in front of them. He tries to make eye contact with Lance through it and is unsuccessful, but he’s content watching the two of them.

“Nah.”

“You sure?”

“Don’t you just... crave it, sometimes?”

“Plain, untoasted bread?”

“Yeah. Like, just straight up the white Wonder Bread stuff. Not even like the fancy fresh-baked… bakery stuff. Just this. Plain, white, untoasted bread.”

“Maybe.”

“What do you mean, ‘maybe’? It’s a have-or-haven’t-you question.”

“If I were a starving man, then maybe.”

“Honestly? It’s like water. It’s not the most flavourful thing, but when you’ve been living a high life all fancy, then sometimes you just need that good-ol’ palette cleanser. Too much of it probably isn’t healthy, but it won’t stop me from eating the whole bag of bread. Or drinking all the water.”

“You don’t die from drinking water.”

“Yeah, and you don’t die from eating bread. Mostly. But _too much of it,_ and you’ll be dead. Didn’t think that was a thing, though. I _love_ water. Like—you know that scene in Saw? Where the dude’s trapped in the water thing?”

Keith tries not to protest the morbid change of topic. He suspects Lance needs to talk for a little while, at least. “Kind of? Shiro tried not to get me to watch it, but I snuck into a movie theatre to watch it anyway.”

“Rebel.”

“Yeah, yeah. It was more gross than scary, anyway. But what were you saying about it?”

“I always thought that scene was dumb. Like, you could just drink all the water, right?” Lance laughs out loud. “Then I remembered the body was seventy percent water, which means that I’d have to drink some of it, then pee it out, and then drink more, but then it would become pee water. And _that_ was the real torture, for the people who were super smart.”

Keith can’t help but make a face. “Lance, that’s vile.”

“Vile? Or _viable?_ Only you can tell, Keith.”

“If the decision power lies with me, I’ll have to say vile.”

“Party pooper.”

“How many bodily functions must you include in this before you stop?”

“As many as I want, _pee_ th _poo_ gane.”

It’s so _stupid_ that Keith’s subsequent laughter is mixed in with his wheeze of disbelief. “You were stretching real hard there.”

“Maybe. But you still laughed.” Keith feels Lance smile against the top of his head and he glances back up to their reflection in their oven. Lance seems a little more grounded now, a little more relaxed, arm around Keith’s shoulder and rubbing soft circles at the base of his neck.

“Feeling better?”

“Sometimes the craving strikes. I won’t be sated until this bread bag has been gutted,” Lance says, but Keith sees the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You know you can wake me up when stuff like this happens, right?” He’s not sure if it’s the right thing to say—if _anything_ is the right thing to say—but it’s better than nothing in most cases like this.

“Yeah, but… it’s not like you don’t have troubles sleeping, either.”

“I’d rather have trouble sleeping with you than me sleeping while you go through a crisis.”

“The only crisis is that we don’t have enough bread,” Lance chuckles, leaning his head more heavily on top of Keith’s. Then he closes his eyes and says, quieter, “Is it really that much trouble sleeping with me? Not—not like that, just...”

Keith refrains from teasing him. “Nah, I get you. And yeah, it’s a pain in the ass. You hog all the blankets and your feet and hands are always cold and are somehow always attracted to the warmest of all of my body parts. But it’s an even bigger problem when you’re not there.”

He thinks it starts okay, but Lance takes a second too long to answer. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave.”

 _No, no, not like that._ Keith isn’t great with his words. Never has been. He thinks maybe right now he’s working too hard on finding the right words and trying to override his instinct, so he takes a breath and starts. “No, don’t apologize. You can—you can leave if that helps. I just mean I want to help if I can, so you can wake me up. Really. If helping you means you feel better, it’s infinitely better-feeling than good sleep. I don’t care if you wake me up to talk to me about, about bread, or constellations you think are cool, or how dumb geese look when they’re teenagers, or even what you’re upset about, because if it helps, then it helps.”

“Teenager geese?”

“You know, when they’re fuzzy and adult-goose shaped, but not yellow like goslings.” He remembers this because Lance had told him about them in a time like this, where Keith was curled up in their bed, Lance’s hand running gently through his hair, laughing softly against the shell of his ear.

Lance kisses the top of his head and sighs. He’s completely unreadable now, which is rare; Lance normally wears his emotions plain as day, but there are nights like this where it’s hard for Keith. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. And I mean any time.”

“I know. You never say things you don’t mean. Even when they come out really badly worded,” Lance jokes, nudging his shoulder slightly and letting out an enormous, exaggerated yawn. They stare off at each other through the reflection of the oven before Keith’s control slips and he yawns back. “I won that time.”

“You’ve found a way to turn breathing into a competition.”

“Hey, Keith.”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe if you want me.”

Keith tries to stifle his laughter and it comes out a snort, but he’s determined to _not_ lose this one. He turns his head to face Lance and puffs out his cheeks, holding his breath. Lance waves a hand in front of his face, then putting his palm against Keith’s nose and mouth. “Yep, not breathing. I’m hurt.”

And then Lance kisses his forehead and Keith is momentarily so surprised that he breathes out through his nose. He huffs again when Lance grins wide, stretching across his face, honest and clear in its enjoyment.

“Cheater.”

“Can’t hear you. Looks like you want me.”

“Yeah, want you to shut up and go to bed.”

“But the floor is cold.”

“You’re the one wearing slippers, _I_ should be the one complaining. But instead I’m being a mature adult.”

“Says the guy trying not to breathe to prove a point.”

“It’s a legitimate point.” It’s not a legitimate point. In any case, Keith relaxes a little bit. He lets the content silence hang in the air before trying again. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Keith can feel Lance’s tiredness seep between their skin, into his own bones. “Another time. I’m good for now.” Lance stands up and stretches, spinning the bag of bread and tucking the plastic underneath. When Keith follows suit, he instead finds himself scooped up and being carried bridal style.

He does _not_ let out an indignified squawk, no matter what Lance says. His hands grip around his boyfriend’s neck and he asks, “What are you doing?”

“Making sure your feet aren’t cold, Your Highness. And going back to bed. Your word is law.”

“At least brush your teeth. I don’t want your bread breath down my back.”

“My… bread..th? My breadth?”

“That’s a real word.”

Shrugging, Lance says, “I tried.”

It’s one of Keith’s favourite thing about him, the fact that Lance always tries, that he wants to be the best version of himself for everything he does. Even now, he wonders if Lance needs him when he can bounce back, always so brilliantly, always so bright—but that sort of thing doesn’t matter because Lance looks down at him with so much _want_ that Keith doesn’t doubt that he himself would travel to the ends of the universe for Lance.

Lance lays him gently down in bed and then drops beside him, making Keith let out a breath of laughter. “Night, Lance.”

“G’night, Keith.” Lance surrounds himself in the blankets further. “Thanks.”

He hums. “Always.”

 

 

 


End file.
